


watermelon sugar high

by movement (earthshaker)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Test Kitchen Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26424532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthshaker/pseuds/movement
Summary: Love, to Minghao, has always meant labor. Like tempering chocolate, the patience of heating and whisking and cooling and seeding a continuous process, a commitment to love, love, love. In their hotel room, this translates to Minghao and Mingyu on the balcony, a bag of mangosteens precariously balanced on Minghao’s lap. In the realm of the test kitchen, Minghao’s apartment or Mingyu’s apartment, there would be a paring knife involved. There is one somewhere in the room, but right now there is only Minghao’s hands.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 14
Kudos: 82
Collections: K-Pop Ficmix 2020





	watermelon sugar high

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pixiepower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/gifts).
  * Inspired by [bloom all night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21531199) by [pixiepower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower). 



> Dearest Isi, I'm so thrilled I got to write for you! This would've been more elaborate had it not been for time constraints, but I do love it dearly and hope you do too. I'm also convinced you'll absolutely be able to guess who I am, but let me maintain a facsimile of anonymity <3
> 
> Echoing the note from the original author, this AU is not meant to replicate the environment of the inequal workspace of CNE. I only hope that you can find some comfort in a fictionalized version of the setting.

Thimbleful of broth, thimbleful

of gruel, the merest suggestion

floods my mouth with memory

so rich I practically drown

_**Appetite** , Rynn Williams_

Minghao has replayed this memory so many times it feels like a dream. Grasping at the edges of something once known, distilled into something now sacred. Its components: the half-light of the test kitchen, the artificial sweetness of white chocolate, and most importantly, the tang of merlot. In retrospect, it is probably the merlot that has Minghao’s memory falling apart like candy floss in his mouth.

In his mind, it goes like this: 

“I would call you a liar if I didn’t know you really did think you’d be done with this by now,” Mingyu’s voice rings through the silence of the test kitchen and Minghao’s body betrays him, relaxing from the proximity to Mingyu.

What he _can_ control is a dedication to the bowl of white chocolate in front of him, thinking about Mingyu’s easy smile as he whisks instead of looking up to the real thing, even as Mingyu moves into his field of vision. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might get owned by fucking Kinder Eggs,” Minghao spits out. It doesn’t matter that Minghao makes a mean souffle because he’s about to fold to mass-manufactured candy. He’s exhausted and there’s a lingering aftertaste of white chocolate, artificially sweet and cloying, in his mouth. 

“When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t made of chocolate?” Mingyu says, braced against the workstation. Minghao finally allows himself to look up; Mingyu is handsome even at work but outside of it—even in the half-light, Mingyu looks like he’s been glazed with honey—a train of thought Minghao refuses to pursue. He focuses on the question instead, nose scrunching up. The taste of chocolate in his mouth is enough of a reminder, Mingyu laughing. “That’s what I thought.”

There is a clear boundary between Mingyu at work, and Mingyu out of it. It’s like working with a reduction, the looseness of a sauce before you keep it on a simmer, and draw the spatula down the center. This Mingyu is one who hasn’t been reduced down to passion and hard work, loose edges, too much energy. This is a Mingyu who makes his own chopping boards and has a scraggly herb garden, a delicate gold chain he takes off for work reflecting the half-light, a flat pendant caught in the hollow of his throat. The sequence blurs, conversation that has Minghao relaxing even as he continues to whisk, shoulders down instead of by his ears. 

When the memory resolidifies, Minghao remembers the sharp craving for a drink. Ideally, an Irish coffee. Mingyu laughs, a sound that blooms bright in Minghao’s exhausted mind, saffron in milk. Minghao should also _eat_ , but that seems less important when he’s running on fumes. He says as much at Mingyu’s offer of grabbing dinner, expecting Mingyu to give in and leave. After all, Mingyu showed up for his headphones, not for the pity party consisting of Xu Minghao and Kinder Eggs. 

If the essence of Mingyu were to be reduced even further, to a sticky mass that coats Minghao’s throat, it would consist of acts of service. Selfless, most of the time. Cocksure, sometimes. A knowledge that there will always be a response to Mingyu’s actions. 

Minghao is not sure why he’s surprised when Mingyu shrugs. Says, “Okay. Then let’s have a drink and I’ll make us dinner.”

It doesn’t seem to matter that Mingyu is _technically_ on vacation, that he has a flight to catch or something. There is only movement as a commitment to intent, an uncorked bottle of merlot that meets Minghao’s mouth before Mingyu can pour it into a glass. Mingyu’s laughter again, warm. Minghao thinks about ginger tea made by Junhui: clove, star anise, cinnamon, ginger root, water, honey. A vehicle to home, and kinder memories. 

The rest of the night is a blur, condensed down to cooking chicken thighs together and softened by wine, Mingyu’s laughter, a warm palm that spans Minghao’s thigh, a hot meal, it’s easy to unspool. To remember Mingyu’s conviction, grounded with a belief in Minghao far greater than what he has in himself at the moment. A breath, and then—

“What’s better than your best?” 

It’s vulnerable and makes Minghao smile, even as he melts on the inside. Heart a mass of queso oaxaca. Minghao has been compared to durian more than once, prickly on the outside but worth the labor for the yield. Mingyu, who Minghao _knows_ for a fact has never cracked open a durian before, handles Minghao like a pro. It’s a growing realization: Minghao is halfway in love with Mingyu. 

So he says, “Aish, that’s so cliché. I thought you had more imagination than that.”

“Oh, please, I just regurgitate lines from all my favorite romance movies.”

“Please don’t say regurgitate near my chocolate,” Minghao says, leaning his head against Mingyu’s shoulder. It blurs again, the tension between them fragile like spun sugar. Minghao has a chance to clam up or let Mingyu in. Tinted by exhaustion, half-light, the act of cooking together, the admission comes easy. 

“You always make me feel better,” Minghao says sweetly.

On vacation with Mingyu this time, instead of being owned by Kinder Eggs, it’s easy to use that memory as a crutch. A reflection point on how they’ve moved past caramel latte kisses and baked clay. Minghao is groggy from the red-eye between Incheon and Phuket, using Mingyu as support and Mingyu, good-natured as ever, lets Minghao cling.

Encourages it, even, childlike delight dusting his cheeks dragonfruit red, one hand intertwined with Minghao’s, only pulling apart at immigration. Minghao is slightly more functional by the time they find their luggage, coaxed by the richness of coffee in the air. The airport is crawling with tourists, a surprising number of them Russian. 

“I’ll get us a cab to the hotel,” Mingyu says, leaving Minghao with the bags. 

Out of the cool air conditioning, Phuket’s heat and humidity is a solid wall in Minghao’s face. He should’ve opted for layers like Mingyu, hoodie tied around his waist but Minghao’s never been known for practicality when it comes to fashion. And now, in his jumpsuit, he’s paying for it. In the distance, he can spot Mingyu talking animatedly to a cab driver, his ability to make friends anywhere serving him well. Mingyu gestures excitedly for Minghao to come over after five minutes, Minghao rolling their luggage over. 

The drive from the airport to the hotel is long and winding, rising sun streaking the sky with pink as they weave between forest and ocean roads. Between the richness of Mingyu’s voice talking to the driver and the warmth of Mingyu against Minghao’s side, it’s all too easy for Minghao to drift off again. He only wakes when they arrive at their hotel, Mingyu’s smile teasing as he shakes Minghao awake. 

“Koopkhun kráp,” Minghao says hoarsely as Mingyu pays the driver. 

“Enjoy your holiday,” He smiles at Minghao and Mingyu, waving as he sets off.

The day unravels like this: check-in goes smoothly and no one raises an eyebrow at two grown men requesting a king bed. Minghao doesn’t realize how much Mingyu shelled out until they’re _in_ the room, and it’s clearly a suite, with a balcony overlooking the pool, a large bathtub. Little details about going on holidays that Minghao had offhandedly mentioned a few times, Mingyu manifesting them. Minghao’s heart feels a little like a kernel of corn exposed to heat, ready to burst in response to the gentle fire of Mingyu’s love.

The sky is robin’s egg blue when Minghao steps out onto the balcony, Mingyu coming up behind him and nuzzling into his neck. 

“Do you like it?” Mingyu whispers. 

Minghao finds his hand and squeezes it. “I _love_ it, thank you, jagi.”

Mingyu pinks, even more, a smile spreading across his face like an egg cracked into a pan. 

“They’re still running the breakfast buffet, so you can go down if you want to,” Mingyu’s lips are chapped against Minghao’s neck, but he’s not complaining. Minghao hums, feels Mingyu’s smile bloom even wider. “Or you could take a bath and pass out. I’ll go hunt for an island hopping tour group.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Minghao sighs out. “I’m sorry, you know I was in the—”

“It’s okay,” Mingyu interrupts, turning Minghao around to kiss him, chaste. “I like doing things for you, Hao.”

Minghao’s feelings are lodged in his throat like a baby octopus, and he swallows it down, loops his arms around Mingyu’s neck, and kisses him deeper, licking into his mouth. He only pulls away when Mingyu shivers against him, eyes toffee dark in the sun. It’s hard to stop when they start, sometimes, harder when they have the days stretching out ahead of them like this. 

“I’ll be back,” Mingyu says it low, a promise of sorts. Minghao almost expects a pinky wrapped around his. 

Muscle memory carries him through the motions of his routine—shower, skincare, extra moisturizer just in case, the cool mass of sheets against his face—the blissful embrace of sleep. Minghao doesn’t set an alarm, a luxury. When he finally stirs awake, the clock reads 2pm and Mingyu is seated on the foot of the bed, paring knife in hand, a towel spread across the foot of the bed.

“This is a _really_ romantic way to murder me,” Minghao says. Mingyu jumps up, knuckles white around the hilt of the knife. 

“Hao,” he mumbles petulantly. “You scared me. And the knife is for this.”

Mingyu empties out a bag of mangoes onto the towel, four of them, fat and, from the scent that fills the room, ripe. Mingyu doesn’t even ask before he’s cutting into the mango, preternaturally knowing what Minghao wants before Minghao himself can articulate it. 

Minghao’s hunger is translated into the heft of the mango in Mingyu’s palm, the way he cuts around the pit and scores the flesh, turning the skin out. Minghao is all too familiar with food as a form of expression and this is a declaration of love by Mingyu, handing Minghao two portions of flesh before Mingyu bites into the pit, juice dripping past his wrists and trailing down. 

Minghao wants to put his mouth on it, lap it up as an acknowledgment of Mingyu’s declaration, reciprocate in kind. The room may be quiet, but the conversation is in Minghao wordlessly cutting up the other mango, this time offering Mingyu the flesh and taking the pit for himself. An equal exchange: love transmuted into action. 

Mangoes are not the only fruits Mingyu found. There’s guava, but there’s also rambutan. Minghao and Mingyu make peeling them a competition, cracking them open and chewing carefully around the seed. It is love in a meal, in actions only Mingyu would take. It’s an excellent start to their holiday. 

Mingyu, as Minghao has come to learn, is awful at waking up early. Mingyu possesses the superpower of falling asleep at will as long as he has a flat surface and 15 minutes unless he has something occupying his attention. The prospect of island hopping, however, had Mingyu wide awake at 5.30 a.m. Minghao can’t deny that he’s excited too, if a little nervous, listening attentively to the safety briefing. _Wear your lifejacket. Don’t try anything with the monkeys. Don’t steal coral_. The tour guides and captain have prepared more cut fruit for breakfast, papaya, and banana this time, Minghao’s leg bouncing nervously as the boat picks up in speed, Mingyu’s palm coming to rest over his knee. Their tour group is a small one, fifteen people who are mostly nice. Except for the white backpackers. Every time they act up everyone else pointedly makes eye contact— _can you believe this shit?—_ and Minghao continuously bitches to Mingyu about it, Mingyu cackling. It’s a funny point of unification between twelve strangers. 

The mild annoyance is worth it when the boat is finally anchored and they get to snorkel, Mingyu fiddling with his GoPro as fishes swim around and between Minghao’s legs. The water is clear, the seabed is covered in corals and urchins, bright and beckoning Minghao to them. It’s a rainbow underwater, full of fleeting impressions of color like an abstract painting. From the boat, the tour guides toss bait into the water in the direction of Mingyu and Minghao watches Mingyu’s excited filming as the fish begin to swim circles around him. The tour guide helps them take a photo together, Minghao and Mingyu swim in lazy circles, Minghao poses for the GoPro. It feels like dreamlike the way most things with Mingyu do, moments carefully cured in sugar, a burst of sweetness every time Minghao looks back on them, better with time. 

They stop on multiple islands, each of them more magnificent than the last. On Phi Phi Leh, they cross a bamboo structure from Loh Sama Bay to Maya Bay. Minghao finds it hilarious how terrified Mingyu is of the structure collapsing under him, but the route is beautiful, the sun reflecting off shallow tide pools full of life, Mingyu and Minghao surrounded by forests and jagged pillars of rock. It feels ancient, a remnant of a world that they can only glimpse at and never grasp. Minghao goes crazy with his camera, tugging Mingyu into poses he willingly indulges. It’s something that works well between them: Minghao’s desire to capture art and Mingyu’s desire to embody it. Maya Bay opens up to them with clandestine beaches, the sand so white it hurts to look at, and water so clear Minghao can see his feet even as he wades deeper. It’s also the first place they’ve been to that’s _crowded_ -crowded, everyone vying for the spot that allows them to replicate a scene from a Leonardo DiCaprio movie.

They stop on other islands, laugh at the white tourists when a monkey runs off with someone’s phone, drink mai tai’s out of pineapples on every island that offers them. When they stop for lunch, the caterers on the island offer them watermelon slices as a parting gift, Minghao bargaining in Mandarin for more when he realizes how sweet they are. The aunties smile and press more into his hands, Minghao climbing back onto the boat with the smile of a winner. Mingyu has found himself on the bow of the boat this time, patting the space next to him for Minghao. 

Minghao has been trying to punch himself up for this the whole morning. The boat is slow heading out of the bay but once they hit open waters the captain ramps up the speed. It’s terrifying at first, the speed at which wind whips through Minghao’s hair, the jolt every time they hit a wave, the spray of water across Minghao’s face. It’s Mingyu’s laughter, bright and childlike, painting the world the same color as the slices of watermelon Minghao is holding onto tightly that has Minghao relaxing.

 _This_ is Mingyu at his best. Shirtless in the sun, laughing, hair mussed up _tragically_ by the wind. There’s sand on the ball of his shoulder, caught in the hairs of his legs, tracking down his ribs and Minghao is in _love_. When Mingyu catches him staring, Minghao blushes, picking at the bag in his fingers, Mingyu’s grin turns into something salacious. It’s enough to have the last of nerves dissolve in Minghao, nervousness turned into fond exasperation.

“Feed me,” Mingyu whines. It carries across the air.

Minghao rolls his eyes and gets to it in the same breath, holding up slices of watermelon to Mingyu’s mouth. In his mind’s eye, the moment crystallizes itself as a painting. Humble devotee feeds young god. Humble devotee pays tribute. Humble devotee offers love in bite-sized pieces, a willingness to be swallowed and understood. 

When they finally get back to the hotel, the night is already wrapping its embrace around the island. The sky is orange and purple, the moon luminous. Minghao is wiped, but they end up taking a walk down to Patong Beach. The road is full of big, air-conditioned joints, but Mingyu is drawn to one that’s small and has outdoor seating, the owner settled behind the cash register, unbothered even as bass booms from the bars and clubs down the street. The menu is in English and Thai and they order everything the server recommends and Singha that Minghao is quickly becoming fond of. They get sticky rice at the end, Mingyu snapping a hundred pictures of the mango carved into a rose. It’s warm and sticky and just the right amount of sweet.

It’s what Mingyu’s heart would taste like, Minghao thinks. 

They continue on their walk—the street is lively only the way a beach town could be—raucous laughter, clinking glassware, deep bass, neon lights, tobacco, drag queens hitting on a _delighted_ Mingyu, fried food. Minghao gets excited when he sees a vendor selling rolled ice cream, stall attached to his motorcycle. They stop for a cup, the man recommending a combination of mango and Oreo, Mingyu recording close-ups of the vendor’s practiced movements. Something about ice cream off the street makes it better than any of the rolled ice cream Minghao has had in actual brick and mortar stores, the texture of Oreo complementing the sweetness of the mango. Mingyu ends up getting his own too: Nutella and banana, scarfing it down. They also stop for gyros and crepes, fresh fruit, and cocktails. 

The beach is alive in some spots and sleepy in others. Friends drink Chang by the fire, lovers kiss under the inky sky, children run wild. The waves keep rolling in, a reminder of the constancy of love, how it exists in every form. Minghao and Mingyu find an unattended fire, down to the embers, and settle around it, splitting a bag of langsat between them. Mingyu takes pictures of Minghao illuminated by the embers, the sticky tips of his fingers from prying langsat open, his earrings catching the light of the moon. Minghao’s stomach twists itself into knots over and over again, peeling fruit as fast as he can for Mingyu, filling the space where he would usually say _I love you_. 

“Let’s walk in the water,” Mingyu says, eyes bright.

Minghao lost the ability to say no the same night he lost his taste for white chocolate. The water is cold, Mingyu screeching as he runs along the wet sand. The cuffs of Minghao’s jeans are wet. Between them: happiness a mirror of the stars in the sky, brilliant, in the thousands, breathtaking. When they kiss, Nutella and Orea, banana and mango, langsat and rum, it’s a marriage of flavors that taste like they’ve always belonged together. 

Love, to Minghao, has always meant labor. Like tempering chocolate, the patience of heating and whisking and cooling and seeding a continuous process, a commitment to love, love, love. In their hotel room, on the day before their flight, this translates to Minghao and Mingyu on the balcony, a bag of mangosteens precariously balanced on Minghao’s lap. If this were the test kitchen or one of their apartments, there would be a paring knife involved. Minghao knows they haven't returned the one they asked for at the beginning of their stay but he's too lazy to find it, Minghao's hands enough for the moment.

Practiced, precise motions. The tip of his thumb pressing into the soft skin of the mangosteen, how it gives, a pause of acknowledgment followed by twisting it open. Before Mingyu can reach over, Minghao is plucking out the fruit, pressing it against his lips. Mingyu raises an eyebrow but parts his lips without question, swallowing. It feels a lot like an act of giving oneself over, of acknowledgment. This is what Mingyu means to him, cataloged in acts of labor, couched in love. 

Mingyu grabs a bowl from the room and Minghao smiles in thanks, emptying the fruit into it. There's purple caught under his nails, fingers sticky with juice and sap and when Minghao reaches up to brush Mingyu's cheek, he leaves a bright purple mark. It looks like a hickey, in all honesty, Minghao's breath hitching. 

“What?” Mingyu laughs.

“Can’t I appreciate how beautiful my boyfriend is?” Minghao shoots back.

“You think I’m beautiful?” Mingyu preens, dropping to his knees between Minghao’s spread legs.

Minghao’s breath hitches: the balcony isn't exactly hidden, the pool is in view, there's laughter floating up. It’s _exactly_ the kind of thing Mingyu would do, Minghao thinks deliriously, as Mingyu guides Minghao’s hand by the wrist into his mouth. Minghao’s skin burns where Mingyu touches him and his tongue is even hotter, slick, determined to make even more of a mess out of Minghao's hands.

Mingyu’s tongue on Minghao’s fingers is ticklish but thorough. His lips move up and down each one individually, tonguing at the vee of them, determined to suck the juice of them. Desire grows in the pit of Minghao’s belly, unfurling slowly, leaves towards the sun of Mingyu’s wanting. At this point, Minghao is sure there’s no trace of mangosteen on his fingers and it’s only Mingyu’s stubborn insistence to see things through that has him between Minghao’s legs. 

“We’re on the balcony,” Minghao croaks out.

Mingyu looks delighted at the fact that Minghao’s voice is as rough as an unseasoned mortar, pulling off his fingers with a pop. 

“I’d blow you right here,” Mingyu’s head on Minghao’s thigh, Minghao’s other hand immediately moving to card through Mingyu’s hair. Mingyu has never been ashamed of the magnitude of his wanting.

Minghao is different: he is shy of wanting. Wonders how much of Mingyu he is allowed to have, truly. The good thing is Mingyu has become even better at cracking open durians. A barrier against the spikes, going straight for the seam at the bottom of the fruit, durian segmenting into pieces as if there was never any obstacle to begin with. In Mingyu’s hands, in the confidence of his love, Minghao lets himself want in kind, bared to the core. 

Minghao guides Mingyu off his knees and to their room, stopping briefly to wash his hands thoroughly; they’re still sticky with sap. Falls backward onto the bed and tugs Mingyu over him, smiling into the kiss, the insistence of Mingyu’s tongue against his bottom lip.

Minghao feels indulgent in a way that comes to him rarely: Mingyu and the sun making him feel like candy on a warming table, malleable, willing to be shaped. Mingyu’s palms are cool, confident against the cut-out sides of Minghao’s tank top, fingers spanning his ribs. On top of him, Mingyu is focused and Minghao can’t have that, rolling his hips against Mingyu’s ass, grinning at the choked sound that escapes. At the core of Mingyu, there is a hunger that borders on greed, a willingness to consume. Minghao loves it.

In retaliation, Mingyu tugs Minghao’s top off, surging in for another kiss. Kissing, at this point, has been reduced to muscle memory, an easy push and pull that comes to Minghao instinctually; like the movement of his knife in hand. When Mingyu kisses, he always wants to leave a mark. To impress upon Minghao that he was here, that he has taken a bite. Quite literally bites down on Minghao’s neck, tongue warm and wet, Minghao groaning. 

“I want to ride you,” Mingyu decides, head tilted to the side, lower lip caught between his teeth.

Minghao smiles, hums in assent, swipes his thumb against Mingyu’s bottom lip. Mingyu’s eyes go even darker if possible but his expression is tender as he takes Minghao’s thumb into his mouth, grinding down even more pointedly against Minghao’s erection. If you were to ask Minghao what his favorite flavor of Mingyu is, it’s this one: Mingyu reduced down to a need to give, but also to take. Their clothes come off fast when Mingyu finally lets go of Minghao’s thumb, Mingyu standing up to shimmy his board shorts off, and Minghao kicking his own pants off. It’s unsexy, but there’s laughter in the air, the weight of Mingyu climbing back onto Minghao, Minghao’s loud groan when Mingyu wraps a dry hand around his cock.

There’s a moment where Mingyu takes Minghao in, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. Minghao wants to crack his thoughts open sometimes, scoop them out and savor them, except Mingyu answers Minghao’s question by holding a palm up to Minghao’s mouth. Minghao smiles, kisses the center of it before he licks wide stripes over Mingyu’s palm.

“I’m not going to finger myself like this,” Mingyu huffs out.

Minghao laughs, twisting to reach for the lube and a condom on the bedside table. What’s a tropical holiday without liberal amounts of sex, anyway? Mingyu wastes no time once Minghao hands the lube over, coating his fingers liberally. Minghao has learned that Mingyu likes things wet, messy, _loves_ it when Minghao comes in him and eats him out after, crying against the sheets as Mingyu comes a second time. Mingyu has no hesitation when he reaches behind to circle his rim with slicked hands, neck thrown back and mouth parted as he sinks onto the first finger, bounces impatiently on it. 

The sun streaming through their windows paints Mingyu in gold and shadows, catching the high points of his cheekbones, the plushness of his lips, the definition of his torso. Let it be said that for all the food Mingyu puts away when he’s at work, there’s a workout routine behind the body. Minghao is barely paying attention to how many fingers Mingyu has in himself—it’s two—more focused on his high whimpers and the way his cock smears wetness against his abdomen, the way every third word from his mouth is Minghao’s name, and the way Mingyu rolls forward when Minghao starts digging his fingers into Mingyu’s thighs. 

Years of kneading bread has worked out in his favor, Minghao thinks deliriously. Mingyu moans loud and unabashed when Minghao starts palming his ass, his thighs, brushing his knuckles against Mingyu’s cock. It’s so rewarding for the way Mingyu adds another finger and drops his head against the crook of Minghao’s neck, where he pants wet and hot for how he wants Minghao to fuck him. The mixture of honesty and desperation that has Minghao cracking, rolling the condom over his dick, lining it up with Mingyu, and coaxing Mingyu’s fingers out. 

They’re both silent when Mingyu sinks down onto Minghao’s cock, Mingyu leaning forward to press their foreheads together. It’s still for a moment, Minghao holding himself back from fucking up into Mingyu. Mingyu likes taking dick like this because Mingyu likes putting on a show, is the thing. Minghao is reduced to an extremely attentive, extremely appreciative audience; it’s worth the wait for when Mingyu gets going. 

Mingyu braces his weight on his knees, thighs flexing as he bounces up and down Minghao’s cock, tight, controlled, an unrestrained sigh every time he sinks down. He’s hot and tight around Minghao and Minghao wants—to push him onto his back and fuck Mingyu the way he deserves—but he won’t. It’s better when Mingyu gets there himself, when he’s pliant and whiny and begging for Minghao to take over. It does something to Minghao, makes him heady, the shoots of desire reaching out in response to Mingyu’s sun. He knows better. Even like this, Mingyu is in control. They continue in a slow grind, Minghao gasping when Mingyu picks up a rhythm of bouncing on his cock, hands tight on Mingyu’s waist.

“ _Minghao_ ,” Mingyu moans, sweet as agave in his mouth. “Jagiya.”

Minghao exhales harshly, rubbing circles into the skin of Mingyu’s abdomen, relishing the way his muscles ripple under Minghao’s hands. He doesn’t give any warning before he braces his feet on the mattress, fucking up into Mingyu every time he rocks down, Mingyu groaning. Mingyu’s high whines and Minghao soft gasps come together like raw mango and lime juice, essential pairings, Mingyu’s voice pitching higher when Minghao wraps a hand around his cock. Minghao’s world is narrowed down to Mingyu tight around his cock, panting into Mingyu’s mouth when Mingyu tries to kiss him. Mingyu comes first, hips still rocking against Minghao’s as he rides it out, painting his stomach and Minghao’s hand in white. When Minghao comes, shortly after, it feels like an exploding bottle of Lambrusco, morning glory blooming in the brilliance of the sun.

It takes some time before Mingyu finally rolls off of Minghao, Mingyu sucking his come off Minghao’s fingers when he’s spread over the sheets. Minghao just laughs breathlessly, licking into Mingyu’s mouth when he’s done, the two of them trading kisses lazily before Minghao hobbles over to the bathroom to get rid of the condom and grab a wet towel for Mingyu.

Mingyu is already halfway to sleep when Minghao steps out, Minghao cruelly slapping the damp towel across Mingyu’s thigh, Mingyu cracking an eye open.

“If you wanna go again, we have to nap first,” Mingyu says, very seriously. Minghao laughs, fondness bubbling up and out like a bottle of champagne. 

“I love you,” Minghao says instead. 

“I know,” Mingyu smiles, stretching into Minghao’s gentle touches with the towel. “You asked my mom how to make galbijjim.”

“Shut up,” Minghao huffs, climbing beside Mingyu. 

Love, to Minghao, has always meant labor. Opening up to Mingyu, slowly and all at once. Committing Mingyu’s favorite recipes to mind. A willingness to show someone how best to crack you open and then trust that they will appreciate the taste the find. The uncertainty of the future traded for the grounding of this moment: Mingyu in Minghao's arms, an impression of gold and laughter, warming Minghao up like a bowl of congee and _youtiao_. Minghao lets himself have this love, swallow it whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos delight me!


End file.
